Arms
by prodigaldaughter13
Summary: Conclusion to the Lovestrong series. It took a case to make them friends, and it'll take a case to fix that friendship.
1. You Put Your Arms Around Me

It was a case, in the end, that brought them back together. They'd been making attempts at friendship but had found it awkward and stilted, as if they were both trying too hard. One late night however, just as John was wrapping up his graveyard shift, Sherlock blew in through the doors and grabbed him by the elbow. His eyes were sparkling with the life only a case could give them and John knew, before Sherlock said a word, that they were going to crime scene.

"Come along, John, can't go without my blogger," Sherlock announced, tugging him out the door as John waved a hand at his coworkers, letting them know he was alright, and wasn't being kidnapped, just enthusiastically invited someplace.

John had made a succinct post on his blog about Sherlock's return, and evidently Sherlock took that as evidence that they'd be solving crimes again. John wasn't about to argue, his hand had been shaking more and more lately; he could use another trip through the battlefield.

They took a cab towards the Thames, and jumped out a few blocks from the crime scene. Sherlock led him up to Greg, who was leaning along with Donovan against a building while the crime techs were in the alley, examining the body.

"All right, John?" Greg greeted them. John nodded.

"And you?" he returned. Greg gave a grin that told him the inspector was as pleased as could be that his consultant was back, with blogger in tow. Sally had a small petulant frown on her face, but there were traces of guilt around her eyes. Anderson simply looked annoyed that Sherlock wasn't dead, and that grated John more than it should have, really. Sherlock noticed and gave John's shoulder a pat and shot him a look that said _he's not worth it right now, don't bother_.

Sherlock sped into the alley to have a look at the body while John asked Greg for a rundown.

"Well, it's not that the death is odd. Just a routine stabbing, we'd normally assume it was a mugging, but we got this call… here, it's easier if you hear it." Greg pulled out his phone and John waved Sherlock over. It'd be best if Sherlock could hear it, he caught so much and John caught so little.

Greg started the voice message. "What can run but never walks, Has a mouth but never talks, Has a bed but never sleeps, Has a head but never weeps." Followed by the address they were currently at.

"What's the river got to do with all this?" John immediately asked. Sherlock and Greg both blinked at him. "Oh, come one. It's a riddle, the answer's a river. We used to do these as kids!" Sherlock merely shook his head in quiet annoyance that he hadn't been able to figure it out, and a small amount of awe that John had understood it.

"Well, Lestrade, I'll have John text if we get any leads," Sherlock said, sweeping away down the block. John made a hasty goodbye and hurried after Sherlock.

"Whatever you're planning, it's a bad idea," John warned, moving quickly to keep up with his longer-legged companion. They were headed down towards one of the pedestrian bridges. Suddenly Sherlock whirled and pinned John to the wall by the shoulders, his arms forming a cage around the doctor. John tried to quell his response; this wasn't a kiss or anything close to that, this was Sherlock hiding them from something or someone.

"We've got company. Do you have your gun?" Sherlock hissed, glancing behind them. John couldn't see anyone, but if Sherlock said they were there, they were there. He bobbed his head; he'd kept it on him out of habit more than anything else and now he was grateful. "Good. On three they'll be rounding the corner. Shoot for the legs," Sherlock muttered. "One." John cocked his weapon for the first time in three years. "Two." He removed the safety. "Three." Sherlock flew off of John as the former soldier leapt out to face whoever was tailing them. Without a thought, he shot the man's legs out from under him. Sherlock raced forward to pin the man's arms, revealing his face to the streetlight.

Sherlock hissed, clearly he recognized the man. "John. Gun." Sherlock ordered, sitting on the man's chest as he struggled to get away. John raised an eyebrow. Never in a million years was he going to let an obviously incensed Sherlock hold his gun. Sherlock turned. "John, meet Sebastian Moran. Back from the dead."

The name was familiar. Then it clicked into place. Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand man. The assassin that had been assigned to John. His blood ran cold but he kept his face impassive. "I thought you caught up with him in Zurich," John said.

"So did I," Sherlock said, and underneath the seeming calm of his voice there was fury, barely contained and etched in every feature of his chiseled face. He kept one hand pressed across Moran's throat, incapacitating the man as he sat on the assassin's chest. "John. I really do need you to hand me that gun now."

Moran chuckled. "Going to kill me again, Sherlock?" he managed to gasp out around the death grip Sherlock had on his neck.

"As slowly and painfully as possible," Sherlock replied smoothly with undeniable venom. John realized then how much Sherlock had given up for him. Keeping his gun trained on Moran with one hand he pulled out his mobile with the other and shot off a text to Mycroft with their location and one word. _Moran_

Mere minutes later two black town cars slid up beside them. Mycroft stepped out of one while two gruff looking men stepped out of the other. Mycroft gestured for John to remove Sherlock from Moran's chest. John put the safety back on his gun before concealing it and pulling Sherlock away from the assassin. The detective struggled for a moment but once he saw that Moran was being handcuffed he relaxed. John didn't let him go just yet, knowing that if he got the chance, Sherlock would prefer to finish the job himself. It's what John wanted too, but Mycroft gave them both a firm look that held them in place.

The car containing Moran drove away and John released Sherlock. The detective brushed off his coat but didn't step away from John.

"I thought you said you killed him, Sherlock," Mycroft scolded mildly, twirling his umbrella. Sherlock sighed in frustration.

"Obviously dead is a relative term at this point," John interjected before the brothers could get into it.

Sherlock's mouth quirked up a bit at that. "Yes, well you've got him now, and you're _more_ than capable, aren't you?" Sherlock finally commented, smirking as he stepped to the curb and flagged down a passing cab. John rolled his eyes. It never failed to take less than fifteen seconds for Sherlock to get a cab, but it took John a good ten minutes. They climbed into the cab, laughing at the look of indignation on Mycroft's face the entire ride home.

John didn't realize anything strange was happening until he reached the flat. The moment Sherlock opened the door, still chuckling, he remembered._I don't live here anymore_. His laughter stopped abruptly. Sherlock turned, his laughter petering out as he read John's thoughts.

The detective took a large breath, seemingly to steady himself, but that was ridiculous. Sherlock might be mad, unstable, but he never needed to prepare himself before he said something. "You could come in for some tea. I can't make it as well as you do," Sherlock said, offering a weak smile.

"Yeah, well that's probably because you never bothered getting any yourself," John laughed, pushing past Sherlock and striding into the familiar flat.


	2. And I'm Home

Sherlock grinned happily as John busied himself in the kitchen, tutting about the lack of food in the cupboards. "Have you even been _eating_ since you got back, Sherlock?" John exclaimed as he passed Sherlock his tea.

The detective gave a guilty smile. "Not much. Mrs. Hudson left on holiday," Sherlock admitted. John knew that if Mrs. Hudson didn't forced food upon him, Sherlock would forget to eat without John there to ensure it happened.

"Then I'm ordering in," John decided, pulling out his mobile and calling Angelo's. Normally they didn't deliver, but Angelo was so glad that Sherlock was back he sent his nephew down the street with the food in a matter of minutes. Still, John tipped him a bit to make sure their gratitude was obvious.

John plopped the food down on the coffee table and forced a fork into Sherlock's hand. "Eat," he ordered, and while they both tucked in he made sure that Sherlock matched him bite for bite. Finally, Sherlock declared he couldn't possibly eat anything more. Frankly, John had been full for quite some time, but Sherlock would simply have a tantrum if John made him eat more than he ate himself.

"I miss this," John said, without really thinking as he settled back into the sofa. He froze as Sherlock stiffened then relaxed as the detective sat more comfortably, pulling his feet up like a bird as he often did.

Sherlock wouldn't look at him when he spoke. "I miss you," he said in a rather small voice, a voice that sounded nothing like Sherlock but like Sherlock in his purest form at the same time. John couldn't help it. His detective looked so small and fragile perched on the couch in that great coat of his –why hadn't he taken it off when John had removed his own?- that John _had_ to wrap his arms around him and draw him close.

"I miss you," John echoed, burying his face in the detective's dark curls. For a moment Sherlock was stiff but then he melted comfortably into John's arms, pressing his face into the doctor's chest.

"I'm sorry I didn't think of a better way," Sherlock whispered, so quietly that John wasn't certain he was meant to hear it. He replied anyway.

"It wasn't your fault, Sherlock," John said. "And I'm sorry I was such a wanker about it." He gave a dry chuckle and on impulse kissed the top of Sherlock's head.

"You were a bit of a wanker," Sherlock laughed pushing back so he could look John in the face. John punched him playfully.

"You aren't supposed to _agree_," John said with a chortle and a grin, pulling Sherlock to him without a second thought and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

Sherlock jerked back in surprise for a moment, and immediately saw uncertainty and hurt dance across John's face. Suddenly he leaned into John and kissed him, really _properly_ kissed him. He swept his tongue across John's bottom lip, silently begging entrance and John admitted him a moment later with a gentle groan. John laid down, pulling Sherlock by the lapels of his coat until the detective was sprawled over John, their bodies interlocking perfectly as their tongues danced.

Ages later Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows to look down at John. Somehow his own coat and shirt as well as John's jumper and undershirt had disappeared, leaving nothing but their trousers. Finally the moment was right.

Sherlock ducked his head to pepper kisses across John's collarbone and up his neck before slotting their mouths together for a slow, searing kiss. Then he pulled back again, sitting up and dragging John with him so that he could see John's eyes, the blue blazing with desire and… something more.

"I love you," Sherlock said, knowing that this time, John was listening. John leaned over and kissed him again, chastely.

"I love you," John replied simply.

"Can you come home?" Sherlock asked uncertainly. Perhaps John would rather remain in his other flat, perhaps he wouldn't want to move in together yet, perhaps- his mind was running away from him and John knew it, and knew how to stop it short.

"I'm already home, here with you," John answered, putting his arms around Sherlock's thin body and moving until they were lying down again, this time side by side, overlapping a bit on the narrow sofa. Sherlock's eyes lit up and he pressed his lips to John's forehead before settling down into John's embrace.

Just as John was beginning to doze off, he heard Sherlock murmur something to himself that sounded suspiciously like having to tell Mrs. Hudson she could rent out the second bedroom.

It was all the promise John needed, and he fell into the first good night's sleep he'd gotten in three years.


End file.
